


lazurite

by wan17



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wan17/pseuds/wan17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You awake with a name on your lips, in the dead of night, and it means nothing to you, because that name comes from a dream.</p><p>[*contains spoilers for Lazward's story and supports, and by extension, Odin's and Luna's.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	lazurite

**Author's Note:**

> This fic makes heavy references to the following supports: 
> 
> Xander (Marx) and Lazwald C-A supports:  
> <http://pastebin.com/BRT7yM7y>
> 
> Lazwald and Soleil C-A supports:  
> <http://pastebin.com/VqApCe1K>
> 
> Odin and Lazwald C-A supports:  
> <http://pastebin.com/uGqN4QZ6>
> 
> It contains spoilers for Lazward's, Odin's, and Luna's backstories, and makes mention of Lazward's child. However, it has no actual spoilers with regards to the game's storyline, because even I haven't spoiled myself for that LOL. Anyway, please enjoy.
> 
> [7/2/15: Got around to editing like, a day after I posted this. Some edits have been made for better flow and now this is 300 words longer for your viewing pleasure.)

In this world, you awake with a name on your lips in a patch of grass in the dead of night. The stars are bright in the sky and you can smell the air, feel the breeze tickling your cheek. You remember that you’d been smiling the bitter sort of grin when you’d held his hand in yours and stepped into that gate with fire running through your heart because _you’d all succeeded and there was no more fell dragon, no more war, no more reason that anyone would have to die. You’d be leaving everything behind, all the maidens whose hearts you’d ensnared, but. You’re going home._ Laughter threatens to burst through your mouth; the laughs bubble instead, coming from your chest up to your throat and out from the tip of your tongue.

You are home, where you were born, where you belong. You’re older by years now, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s only a fraction of your life and you’ll be able to spend the rest of it anew, here, in peace. Your sister is alive, but so is your mother, so is your father, so are all your friends and aunts and uncles and even though they’ll probably be old now, that’s alright. Because your father did not disappear in the war before you were able to walk and your sister did not stop smiling before you were able to recognize her face and your mother did not die from a lance sticking out from her back (with you in her arms). No one is dead, and everyone is alive.

The reconstruction works will probably have finished by now, more than a decade, close to two, after the war has ended. It is not ruins that you will return to. You will return to the bustling towns that you have grown so familiar with over the past few years, because they will have survived, with their humble maidens that lose all their modesty when they chase you with brooms in their hands, their skirts hitched up for a scandalous remark you’d made. There will be sheep in the pastures, fields full of crops, not empty, cracked, desiccated earth. Pegasi, griffons and wyverns will not be chained and emaciated, but free to roam. There will never be an endless war. In this world, you are home.

It’s elation that fills you, that makes your eyes close into crescents even though there is no moon in the sky, that stretches your chest until you have the feeling that it will explode-- You are just happy, so happy, and your hand squeezes because his hand was in yours when the gate had opened but then your fist clenches into nothing and suddenly the air feels _wrong_ and the grass is not smooth _it’s scratchy_ you turn your head and _open your eyes_ \--

and he is not there.

_He isn’t there_ and the name that you had awoken with on your lips dies and fades into obscurity with the passing of each breath too quick to count.

You get up to look left, right, _search wildly for him_ , breathe in gasps _but the air is not fresh and clean_ it’s rife with smoke and gunpowder _it’s wrong_ it’s supposed to be fresh and clean in Ylisse and there are only two flattened patches in the field and one of them is a girl, _your mind supplies the name Severa_ but it only comes to you after you stumble to your knees and find (someone who is not _him_ ) Owain in the field, lying there, unconscious, looking for all the world like he will never open his eyes again. 

The night is quiet, the rest of the field undisturbed.

Vaguely, you think that there is a rock digging into your leg, sharp and hard and vicious, and Owain’s body becomes blurry and your face is warm with tears and _please, no, no, don’t let--, please--_

Your chest is wracked, open and festering with barely-healed scar tissue and something gnawing new wounds in so that both dance together on your flesh. But you’ve been through this, once. Owain and Severa are here, and that is enough. All of you had met, past all the odds, in that life, and destiny cannot keep you apart. You belong together, you and _(him)_ them, and the Gods cannot be so cruel as to tear your hands apart for long. Hope blooms in your chest. If Owain and Severa are here, then _(he)_ all the others must be too.

(The sky has no moon.)

\--

You all take to being mercenaries. It’s to support yourselves, since resources are scarce in this world with the weight of war laden in every whisper behind walls. The only widely available profession here in this country, apparently, is this, but it’s also the only thing the three of you know how to do.

They don’t ask many questions, when you are hired killers, and that suits your group just fine.

Owain, who’d had bags under his eyes, laid down his sword, and picked up a tome. He’d said with a certain fervor that magic was befitting of a dark warrior, the chaos arising with each stroke of breath far more thrilling than simply swinging around a lump of sharp metal has ever been. His wrist jitters, though, and if the lights that dance around his fingers remind you of his mother, you do not comment on the shadows cast in the hollows of his eye sockets, even as they illuminate his eyes with a soft glow.

Severa does not say anything, and a little more than five months later, on the night of the full moon, she says, my name is Luna, and Owain looks far into the sky with a twinkle in his eye and says, with vigor, “So you’re playing at this game, fear not, for my name is Odin of the Darkness,” and she scowls and turns away to face you and you, you stay quiet.

(The wind rushes through your hair, and at this altitude, it’s getting a little hard to breathe, and you’re kind of scared but at the same time you feel secure because you have your arms around him, and Minerva is solid under you, and both of them are the world to you. You’ve rushed into battle with them more times than you could possibly count, back to wyvern tail to back, your sword and his axe swinging in tandem, a dance unto itself. 

You are safe because you know that nothing will keep you three apart, and as Mount Prism, cleared of Risen, is a green blur underneath you, you and him and her glide on blue, an endless blue sky.

The pendant he’s given you swings freely, a mottled azure stone that is almost effervescent in the way that it shines.

“It reminded me of you,” he’d said, his eyes hidden behind his mask, but you’d known without asking what he’d meant because the tips of his ears had been bright red.)

“Lazward,” you say, finally. It’s a name in another language for lapis lazuli. 

“Lazward, of the Blue Skies.”

\--

You and Luna sharpen your swords, blunted from constant use, at the blacksmiths in towns, learn about the history behind the brutal war between Nohr and Hoshido. You’re in Nohr, now, and for all that Hoshido preaches about being peace-loving, they sure are antagonistic on battlefields. They don’t spare any of the other hired mercenaries. But the three of you have known nothing but fighting from the moment you were born into a wartorn world where ash had cloaked the sky instead of sunlight. You three are survivors, bitter ones, and there is no hesitation when you cut down the enemy. (It used to be hard, _to kill people_ , other living humans. You remember the first time you’d done it, his dying breaths staining your skin and the neverending nightmares of his glassy eyes during the following weeks. But it’s hard to remember every time after, because you’ve lost count of the number of lives you’ve taken now.)

The sprays of blood coat you red, coat you and Luna, and Odin goes on about his superiority in battle as a warrior of the mystic when the two of you finally have to spend money to buy new clothes to replace your old ones. He pauses his speech to buy a set too. She rolls her eyes, even as you comment on that and engage him and both of you still bicker about it while you stand shoulder-to-shoulder to murder oncoming fathers, brothers, sons.

You learn about the royal family of Nohr recruiting retainers, and this is- 

“This is the perfect opportunity! We can search with them, a way to get back to our original world,” you exclaim excitedly. “Maybe we can even find the rest! We’ve made a name for ourselves, we can get in easily enough.” 

You nudge Odin, and even Luna smiles a little, and there’s… hope again.

\--

You don’t know if you’re meant to have lost the duel on purpose or not.

All you can think about as you hold the point of your sword to his neck is that you swear to Naga that you’d better not be getting executed for treason for this, but the prince- Lord Xander, he had bowed his head and told you to put your sword away and announced that you would be his, and that was that.

You are stunned. You barely register it as Odin and Luna are assigned to other members of the royalty, because all you can think about is how the soldiers have talked about Lord Xander, the general of victory, breathless with both ardor and admiration. You’re _his_ personal retainer now. It’s a little hard to believe, but he looks to you with steady belief in his eyes and it’s been such a long time since someone had that much faith in you.

You follow after him as he takes large strides across the courtyard, into the castle.

\--

The axe takes a swing at you. It’s not just any axe. It’s of an ancient design. It has the wrong gildings, it’s made of the wrong metal, but it is undoubtedly the same shape. You’ve held it too many times, whether at arms length, or too close to your nose when you help him polish it, that you can’t possibly _not_ recognize it. It’s _his_ axe.

That’s why you don’t move away in time, though your inherited luck and agility and lithe dancer’s body do all they can to prevent the blade from slicing into you. Luckily, it’s not too deep, but the pain of it opens your eyes.

They’re ruffians, and you’d promised that girl at the tavern that you would meet for tea in the afternoon, and you can’t die, not yet.

There’s someone who still needs you. 

(Your mind flashes, and a figure clad in black armor is there.)

Lord Xander had told you that he hadn’t wanted to look for new retainers.

(They will not take the life you’ve built in Nohr away. Not after you’ve spent so long here.)

You decide to return the favor. With all your strength, you push forward with your sword, and you cleave the axe at the handle into two.

You leave the pieces behind.

\--

Later, as a healer brings her palms over the wound, it heals. It doesn’t fester anymore, and the pink, newly-formed, swollen pucker overlays a faded injury. When the skin fully heals you probably won’t be able to even see the old one anymore.

She says: It will take time to heal. But it will heal, eventually.

You look at the new scar, try to discern the outline of the old one, but it’s meaningless because there’s no way to guess what it looks like, and you’ve already forgotten how you’d gotten it.

\--

Months edge into years, and little by little, you start doubting their voices and their faces and their names. Memories turn sepia with age.

Your life as Lord Xander’s retainer is vivid and brightly-colored, and you smile with the memories of his disgruntled face at having to deal with the incompetent and overly arrogant. When he thinks nobody’s looking, there’s even quiet grumbling, and it’s hard to keep a straight face recalling this when you’re behind him in a meeting with a dignitary and you’re supposed to be poker-faced to be polite.

Your home, now, your quarters, your life spent guarding your lord and making sure he is ready to succeed the King as the Crown Prince, is everything you have.

You step in front of him, perform your duties as the vanguard, and you feel a lot more noble compared to the days when you were just a mercenary out in the border. He’s picked you for a reason, after all, and he depends on you for his life. You give your life to him in return.

Seldom, you see Odin and Luna in the company of their respective prince and princess, and you wave to them, and they wave back, but the royal family of Nohr is not very tight-knit, not with Nohr continuing their campaign at every corner of the border. You wave far more often to the soldiers in your Lord’s company. Their voices, faces, and names are what fill you now.

You have to close one eye, though, to the way the months of consecutive storms and floods destroy the livelihoods of those living in more rural farming areas. At least steel miners are thriving, selling their hammered scraps as arrowheads for a profit when the army runs out of them to embed Hoshidian bodies with. You pity Lord Xander for having to organize all of this, but you pity yourself more because you’ve resigned yourself to helping him, due to your sense of duty and loyalty. You sigh at your paperwork.

Through all of it, Pieri’s antics are a handful, and it takes all you have to keep her in check, even as you still sneak out to have tea with ladies from town. You don’t really remember why you do it, but somehow it’s become fun, watching them react to your casual flirting. You pursue them with the passion that they deserve, especially after the time Luna’d scolded you for it. 

They’re all great girls, even if it feels like there’s something missing.

\--

You have a daughter now. She coos at you when she is not crying, and she is, by far, the most beautiful girl you have ever laid your eyes on. Nothing can compare to her, you think in wonder. Even as she gurgles, bawls, barfs, everything is worth it when she curls her tiny hand around your pinky. You stare at her in awe and amazement. _Mine,_ you think. _My daughter._

A headband is tied around her cot, and you smile at her. She has the hair color of her mother, but her features are entirely yours. It’s good if she’ll wear the headband one day too, because you think that your mother had looked radiant in it and it’s only fair that her granddaughter will be able to, too.

\--

Your daughter, you find, does not only take after your features. She’s a right womanizer, she is, but you can’t find it in you to feel anything but beaming pride, because at least _she_ is successful in picking up girls.

She even invites you, (as if you could possibly ever be her wingman), and you love her so much, you think you can’t breathe. You’ve never loved anyone as much as you love her, and you cannot imagine a world where you and your wife are not wed in Nohrian colors, and she is not your daughter.

\--

You get known to be the one who is the most prone to wandering around at night. It’s not as if you can help it. There’s just something about the darkness that wraps around you that makes you feel… warm, even though it should really be freezing.

But it’s also because there’s just a strange restless desire within you to walk through the wilderness, feel the ground underneath your boots, weave your gaze through the thick forest. You can’t sleep, and so you take to wandering, instead.

This particular night, it’s a new moon.

The stars twinkle at the edges of your periphery.

You feel like you should be looking for something.

\--

When you dream, it almost feels real.

(In these dreams, the walls are not stone, they are thick fabric, made to withstand the heat of summer and the cold of winter no matter where you travel. The floor is hard packed dirt, littered with crates and barrels, and even though every time all of you move across the continent and beyond the arrangement changes, it’s still the same bed that you sleep in for more than weeks and months. 

It’s the first home that you have where you feel like you are safe, that you can rest without the fear of a skeletal hand and the smell of rotten flesh and rusted metal gouging your heart out when you close your eyes. Even if you wake up gasping and the image of pink hair stained black brown red _from soot sweat blood_ is burned into your mind, in this dream you look around, see your tent littered with the knickknacks you’d collected from traveling, and roses, and rejected presents to girls from your last visit to a village, and you take a while to breathe more slowly, have a drink of something to ease the dryness of your throat. Sometimes you can’t go back to sleep, but that’s alright, because somehow you know that there’ll be someone who’s as plagued as you are out there, in the camp, and when you walk around together, you’ll be able to while the night away, just you and them. 

More often than not it’s one same person who’s up late tending to the moon’s reflection in the lake, and you sit on the boulder next to his and your jokes and his longsuffering replies are the reprieve to the carnage you face everyday. The moon shifts on the lake until it disappears, and in the morning, smiles will greet you that are not haunted with the lines of desolation and despair, but strong with faith and courage. 

In these dreams, there is a man with a mask that is cool under your touch but has skin that is warm. You remember the warmth of his skin. It’s firm and unyielding and very manly indeed, far from the softness a woman has. His body is made of flat planes, not curves, but somehow you fit into his arms perfectly. He is clad in armor as black as the night, and you remember him sometimes wrapping his dark cloak around your shoulders when you complain that you are cold, and it makes you feel… warm. He doesn’t speak much, but neither does he turn you away. He holds you close to him. Sometimes he calls you a fool, and it’s not untrue, when he looks at you with that kindness, so you grasp him tighter and grin like the world’s biggest idiot.

You dance for him. He watches you from behind his mask, trails the way your arm moves, through the air, the arc of your spine unfurling. More times than you can count, he helps you, even, and his eyes never lose that first spark of wonder and it makes you feel like being a male dancer isn’t something to be ashamed about. You practice and you grow into your mother’s movements, bolder now, and even if it’s by candlelight and never under the sun where your mother’s stage is, you find that dancing this way makes the smile that comes to your face easy, unbidden.

He is the one who helps you secure the chain of the lapis lazuli pendant around your neck, who holds your waist reverently as your breath is stolen, tucks his bare face into the crook of your shoulder. 

In these dreams, you call out his name, and he turns up to look at you, mouth twitching, eyes fond.)

When the sun rises, you awake with a name on your lips, but it dies, there, fades into obscurity.


End file.
